The Game Is On
by Jaiime95
Summary: All is going well for Sherlock, he's coined the phrase consulting detective and solving a mystery a day. When a sister crime solving duo arrive on the scene, competition is going to get heated. But these girls are more than just lucky, someone else is pulling strings. Someone who made a deadly promise to one Sherlock Holmes. And he'll ensure it will come true.
1. Prologue

Authors Note:

So before you begin I would like to say a big thank you for clicking to read my story. You won't be disappointed. Just so you know I'm writing the episodes from the beginning of S1E3 (The Great Game). Our sister duo won't begin sleuthing until at least S2E1. Enjoy and don't forget to leave reviews! I _need_ them!

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**Prologue**

Sherlock Holmes had a particularly strange mind. To any that met him this was clear. He was somewhat callous and rude, especially to those that he declared 'he could read like and open book' which to Sherlock seemed to be everyone. Everyone except for a handful of people, even then there was a level of snobbishness to his persona that they had grown accustom to. To certain others though he was the pinnacle of interesting, the center of a deadly game.

One would not equate the ideals of romance and Mr. Holmes in the same sentence. As a self proclaimed sociopath and certified genius, it was hard for him to meet anyone that could manage to spark his interest. Being highly equipped in deduction he didn't even need to speak to them to gage an overview of their personality and life story. So it was perhaps one of the strangest things to see when the consulting detective became flabbergasted over the presence of one Irene Adler.

I could go to much length to describe their intense relationship but it would be far easier to sum it up on one word; boring. The two were a complex bundle of lust, lies and (dare I say it) possibly love. But that is not the story I intend to write about. No, in fact, I would much rather talk about the other women in Sherlock Holmes strange little life.

There was Mrs. Hudson, the delightfully pleasant landlady who Sherlock had met on a case many years back after ensuring her husband's execution in Florida. There was Molly Hooper, the specialist registrar who worked at St. Bartholomew's Hospital, who had a particularly obvious crush on Sherlock that he either ignored or was totally oblivious to.

Then there was Ellen Harper. She wasn't like Adler, nor Mrs. Hudson or Molly Hooper. Ellen was a strange lady. Proud, privileged but also the antithesis of Sherlock Holmes. She was smart, but not in the 'sociopathic consulting detective' way. She was also terribly opinionated, something that irked Sherlock Holmes to no end.

It would be fair to say there was never just one 'woman' in Sherlock's psychotic little life. So as much as Irene Adler had been perfect for him in one way, Ellen Harper had suited him in another.

That, I presume, was the reason why the two were so integral to the other.

_- Anonymous_


	2. The Great Game - Part One

**The Great Game- Part One**

"Annabeth Harper, if you don't get out of my bathroom right now, I'm going to come in there and rip your dripping wet, naked arse out and drag you into the lobby without an article of clothing." Ellen shouted angrily. There was no response, so again Ellen pounded her fist against the wooden door until she got a response.

"Alright, alright. I heard ya. Just bugger off for five minutes." Beth shouted back as the shower continued to sporadically spurt out hot water. The old pipes clunked and groaned only infuriating Ellen more. Looking down at her watch she began to let panic set in. Monday mornings were the worst and considering she still smelt terribly of last night's half a dozen glasses of 'family wines' she needed that bathroom far more than her sister.

From experience there was really no point trying to force Beth to hurry up when she was in the bathroom. The girl was painfully slow and had been so her entire teenage years. Ellen had hoped that maybe as they grew older the bickering and fighting would come to an end but really it just got more fickle. Actually, that was a lie. Things had been relatively good between them. Two weeks ago Ellen had her flat to herself, with no pesky sibling in sight. Then Beth had had some falling out with her musician boyfriend at the time and ta-da she wound up right back where she always did; back in Ellen's humble yet shabby abode. Now all she was good for was eating the last of the expensive rocky-road ice cream and leaving dirty dishes around the place. Oh and stealing the all hot water too.

Unfortunately, Ellen didn't have time to stand around and mope about how her kindness had never been rewarded. Instead she was more frustrated over the fact that Greg Lestrade had sent her a text at six in the morning, begging if she could come down to the precinct by seven-thirty, all chipper to spend her day psycho analyzing the newest load of wack-jobs to be entered into the system. Being a Forensic Psychologist sounded much more interesting on paper.

So with ten minutes left until she had to leave, Ellen attempted to make herself half presentable with no mirror and no knowledge of the terrible nest that her frizzy locks had tangled themselves into while she slept. She quickly slid open the wardrobe door and yanked forth a white blouse, black pencil skirt and matching blazer and finally a pair of uncomfortable-as-hell pointed toe pumps.

"Beth, honestly, just let me grab my deodorant. I smell like death." Ellen shouted as the shaking pipes stopped. The door to the bathroom quickly flew open and out Beth chucked Ellen's deodorant, brush and make-up bag.

"Now seriously." Beth poked her head around the door, hair neatly up in a towel, "Bugger off!"

"You're a life saver you know that right." Inspector Lestrade beamed as Ellen strode in, morning coffees in hand.

"For the coffee or for analyzing the crazies?" she said with a smirk, taking out her own drink and sipping it slightly. Lestrade took the cardboard pallet, with his, from her and the two walked side by side into the building. They hastily made their way to his office where Lestrade collapsed into his chair and began to rummage through his desk drawers.

"Ah-ha!" he exclaimed, pulling out a yellow manila folder and dumping it in front of Ellen, "This is for you."

"I'm guessing it's the glorious reason why you dragged me out of bed so early?" she said with a coy glance.

"Yeah…" Lestrade cringed, rubbing the back of his neck, "You missed all the drama."

"I've only been out of the office for three days. How much drama could we get since Friday?" Ellen frowned as she took the file off the desk and opened it to skim read. The files said something briefly about the next three cases she needed to take on, not a single one seemed all that urgent.

"Try a house on Baker Street exploded."

"Exploded?" Ellen said with confusion.

"But here's the catch. At first we thought it was a gas leak, but we found a strongbox inside. The bomb squad is opening it as we speak."

"Interesting." Ellen nodded, eyes falling back to her paper work, "I still don't understand why I'm in this early though?"

"I may have bluffed a little." Lestrade said with a weak grin, "I just wanted some decent company around, considering the lack of it we have here."

"So you asked me to come in early, so you could have a chat?" Ellen said, a skeptical tone to her voice.

"When you say it like that, it sounds much worse." Greg grimaced.

"Well, if you don't mind me dosing off at random intervals of the day, I'll say we're even." Ellen smiled moving towards the office door, gripping the handle.

"You've got yourself a deal." Lestrade said with a nod, so Ellen took her files and left, off to her own little desk in the corner of the precinct.

The two people you could always count on being early though, was Sally Donovan and Phillip Anderson. Despite the fact that the two had been exposed engaging in an affair many months back, they insisted that nothing had happened. Not that Ellen would ever say it to their faces, but you didn't exactly have to be a genius to know that the two were going out for more than just a pint after of work. Before the little scandal came to light, the two had had (what Ellen could only describe as) eye sex in front of her, on multiple occasions. Yet they remained as unfazed as ever and were almost inseparable throughout most cases.

"You know… I think I saw some drool coming out of Lestrade's mouth when you left." Sally jeered as Ellen walked past her desk and towards her own. Ellen stopped and sighed, turning to face Sally with a polite smile.

"Always one for the pleasantries, Sally."

"You know it." Sally got to her feet, walking with Ellen back to her desk. Ellen noticed that Sally look particularly frustrated today, more than usual. Holmes must have been coming in.

"You look excited today." She prodded.

"Don't you start!" Sally frowned as they stopped by the water cooler, reaching down to get herself a drink. There was a familiar shuffling of feet and surely enough Anderson bumbled over, with particularly grey bags under his eyes.

"You too?" Sally asked him as he let his head meet the wall.

"As soon as I saw it on the news, I thought 'Great! What array of insults will he bring with him today?'" Phillip groaned.

"And that is why I keep my big mouth shut and stick to my corner." Ellen smirked at the deflating stances the two had fallen into.

Everyone in the precinct hated dealing with Sherlock Holmes. She'd stood by this water-cooler many times and let people bitch and complain about this apparently terrible excuse for a human being. Ellen considered herself very lucky for two reasons. Firstly she had never met the man and in her line of profession wouldn't have much need to. Analysing the mental wellbeing of people before they went on trial meant she spent more time in the courtrooms than the offices of Scotland Yard. Secondly, Ellen was entirely convinced that this man had been blown out of proportion, as his skill probably had. Sally once scoffed at the fact he had started raving about having some 'mind palace' of stored data, that the guy literally used his brain like a hard-drive adding and deleting knowledge. That seemed far-fetched, even for the person that dealt with sociopaths on a daily basis. So for once, her job actually aided her in something real life.

"You going to drink that?" Anderson suddenly spoke, pulling Ellen from her thoughts. The coffee in her hand had Anderson foaming at the mouth.

"Urgh… no." she shook her head and held it out, he needed it much more than she did.

"Although, next time I see John, I've got to thank him for creating that blog. If there is one redeeming thing in the world, it is the knowledge that the prick didn't know that the solar system existed." Sally said with a benevolent smirk.

"What blog?" Anderson questioned, taking a long swig of the coffee. Sally instantly dug into her pocket and pulled forth her phone, loading the infamous page. Phillip took it from her and started scrolling through, instantly enthralled.

"Oh that's great." He exclaimed after a minute of snickering to himself.

"You want to take a look?" he held the phone out for Ellen to read, which she turned down.

"I think I'll keep my knowledge of Mr. Holmes as it is. Minimal. You probably have to know the guy to get all the jokes or something anyway." She explained, leaving to two to gawp like children over John Watson's little blog.

Slowly people began to fill the office, the news of the Baker Street Explosion hummed through the morning conversations. Then the familiar drum of scanners and printers began. Soon enough the precinct was buzzing with life and Ellen got stuck into the work she was accustomed to. But something about that blog kept popping back into her mind.

She was curious. There was a lot of mystery around what the resident 'consulting detective' got up to. Ellen was starting to think that she was the only person in the building that hadn't run into him on one occasion or the other. At the least she wanted to know what he looked like; appearances said a lot about a person. If the stories about him were true, then her observation skills weren't even on par with his. But that didn't mean that they weren't half decent.

So secretly she glanced around to ensure no one was paying attention to her, of course everyone else was far too busy. She opened the web page and quickly searched for 'John Watson blog'. Instantly she found herself scrolling through the archives. The first few posts weren't of any interest, but then Dr. Watson encountered Holmes for the first time and everything heated up. It was like she was a caveman discovering fire; everything about it seemed bizarre but brilliant at the same time. She flicked through the pages with eager clicks until she found herself up to date on everything Holmes and Watson related. Who needed gossip magazines when there was this beauty on the web!

It seemed oddly impossible that any of the cases really happened, but judging from Sally and Anderson's reaction, every last bit of it was true. Plus she knew that they had to get their outstanding reputation from somewhere. To say the least, she was impressed and that was something that Ellen rarely ever was. If she had never met the sleuthing duo she probably would have held them with that same high esteem for the rest of her life.

"Ellen…" Lestrade's voice echoed through the place, a mixture of annoyance and frustration. Her head shot up from the screen and she meekly smiled back as he called her over to his office.

"What's up?" she asked in the middle of the hallway as people pushed past her. Lestrade stood wedged between his office and the isle outside.

"Urhhhh…." He paused, "Well, take a look for yourself." He pointed towards his window. Ellen frowned in confusion and brushed past him to see what he was so adamant about showing her. The moment her eyes focused on the ground below she felt a fury build in her belly, much akin to the one she had this morning.

"I'm going to kill her." She drawled out of a locked jaw.

"I thought you should probably go down and get her to stop before they send someone out there who'll arrest her…" Lestrade winced, "Last time they cuffed her for bashing an office on the head with a protest sign, a-la Tracy Turnblad style."

"Going…" she huffed and turned on herself, hastily making her way down to the scene going on downstairs. As she stormed towards the lift, hell bent on her sister's demise, she shoulder barged a particularly tall man and fell to the ground.

"Watch where you're going moron." She exclaimed as another hand reached out to help her to her feet. She looked up to see the hand belonged to none other than John Watson and she had literally run into his partner, Sherlock Holmes.

"I could tell you the same thing." Holmes said under his breath, dusting off his coat and adjusting his scarf needlessly. Her breath hitched as if the royal family were standing before her.

"You must be Holmes and Watson." Ellen said dumbly, "Pleasure." She held her hand out to shake. John Watson shook it, but Holmes merely stared at it like it was diseased.

"Sorry." John apologized for his friend, "He does that a lot."

"I've heard." Ellen nodded with a slight eye roll, pulling her hand in and straightening up.

"I haven't seen you around here before, are you new?" John asked.

"Alright then… while you two stand around and exchange meaningless small talk, I'm going to go speak to Lestrade and do something far more productive." Sherlock interrupted and walked away, swishing his coat dramatically behind him. Ellen had remembered a few of the blog articles mentioning Sherlock's flair with creative exits. She wasn't sure whether to be offended or impressed.

"Urmmm…" Ellen backtracked, "I'm Ellen. Ellen Harper. I'm in the forensic psychology department. So not new, just mainly doing my job around the court area."

"Oh, wow that's exciting." John tried to be polite, tilting his head slightly and shifting his weight onto one foot.

"Actually, it's really not." Ellen chuckled slightly.

"ELLEN!" Lestrade's voice boomed again, she had forgotten about her sister and the forming mayhem downstairs.

"One second!" she shouted back, facing John, "Sorry we couldn't chat more. My sister is currently downstairs instigating a picket, so I've got to go deal with that." And with that she raced off without so much as a goodbye. John just stood awkwardly as she exits and gave her a little wave, which she didn't notice. There was far more pressing issues at hand. Maybe not super sleuthing issues like Holmes was dealing with, but certainly issues that needed her urgent attention.

On the street level, there was Beth, megaphone in hand and that ex-boyfriend of hers by her side. She was surrounded by a few others, who were angrily shouting and jumping about. This was just great!

"What are you doing?!" she screamed, ripping Beth's sign from her hand.

"We're protesting." She declared smugly.

"I can see that." Ellen waved around the sign dramatically, "I meant with him." She pointed to Beth's latest ex-boyfriend. His name was Dave and he was literally the worst dude she'd got with yet. He was a part-time trolley collector at the local supercenter as well as a failed musician and terrible spoken word poet. He had a mouth on him like a sailor and a body odor that could gag a maggot. His brown curly hair hadn't been brushed in at least a month and was starting to form dreadlocks on it's own. Ellen didn't understand how Beth had fallen in with this guy because he was a hard 4. Her sister however was at least an 8 on a bad day, 9 and above on any other. Then again, 'love' did make people do stupid things. The only logical explanation was that Beth had somehow gotten stuck with permanent beer goggles altering her perception of the male race. _Only. Logical. Explanation_.

"He came by this morning and apologized for breaking up. We had this really great heart to heart and so everything's back on." She giggled with glee and grasped Dave's hand lovingly. Ellen could have been sick and it wasn't just Dave's smell to blame.

"Right…" she tried to comprehend her sister's stupidity, "Well, you need to leave here. Now."

"We are expressing out basic human rights." Beth revved the crowd. They jeered behind her.

"No, you're moping about because you think they unfairly dismissed you when tried to hold a rave inside a police department."

"How many times do I have to say it? It was only supposed to be a little get together!" Beth declared angrily, wrestling Ellen for her sign. Ellen's firm grip pulled it back to her side.

"Right, well active protests aren't going to get you your job back."

"I tried every other way." Beth said, "This is my final option."

"Just go home Beth." Ellen shook her head, tired of arguing, "All of this is ridiculous waste of time."

"That's not what Mum would have said." Beth sudden spat out, catching Ellen off guard. She tensed up where she stood and dropped her gaze away, "She would have said to try and fix what I had done, not run away from it and pretend it never happened. It seems you never were any good at listening to her advice."

"Don't you dare lecture me about what Mum would have wanted." Ellen snapped back, her jaw tense and her brows furrowed, "Besides I only came down to tell you to leave before they said people down to force you to leave. My mistake for trying to do right by you."

"Let them come!" Beth threw her arms wide open and stepped backwards from her sister, her gaze never faltering. Ellen turned away and slowly returned to her desk upstairs. The elevator couldn't quite go fast enough so she found herself eagerly tapping her foot, her arms wrapped around her waist and her fists balled. She needed to get away, from Beth and from work, so when the doors to the elevator opened and she found Lestrade, Holmes and Watson waiting to enter she seized her opportunity.

"Everything sorted?" Lestrade asked. Ellen nodded coherently.

"Do you mind if I take my work home?" she lowered her voice, "I'm suddenly not feeling all too well. I probably ate something funny."

"Urghh… yeah, sure." Lestrade nodded, noticing the droop in Ellen's expression, "Is everything alright?" He whispered so that Holmes and Watson couldn't hear.

"It will be." Ellen reassured him, moving forward and letting the three rush off to wherever was so urgent.

Beth must have taken Ellen's advice, because when she had rounded up her things and started walking towards her car, the mob was gone. That slightly lay her mind to rest, but she just couldn't get over the fact that Beth had the audacity to bring up their mother. She knew that it was a touchy subject even at the best of times, so to bring it up during a fight was simply tacky.

Ellen strut quickly, as the cold nipped at her ankles. She was determined not to let her day be ruined. Her car was parked a few blocks away in an almost abandoned underground car park. She found this hidden gem 6 months ago, merely by chance and it had meant that she escaped the morning struggle for parking. There was only ever two cars inside the place; her red Ford Focus and a black SUV. She never saw the SUV's owner her entire time parking there. The rest of the space was filled with lines for another twenty or so cars, but she never used any of them.

She walked down the slopped entryway, careful not to slip, and jumped into her car. Instantly she felt herself relax and melt into her seat. Not only was it much warmer inside, but she could shut out the rest of the world and only had to deal with herself. It was like today never even happened.

She put the keys into the ignition and let the radio play, when her eyes suddenly caught something peculiar on the seat next to her. There sat a phone with a bright pink case. She had never seen it before and assumed it had to belonged to Beth. She picked it up and turned it over in her hand, lighting up the front screen. There was no indication that this belonged to Beth; it had the generic home background like it was just out of the box. She went to put it down into the cup holder when it began to buzz in her hand. The screen lit up with the caller ID of 'Dave'. Ellen felt an odd wave of happiness wash over her; she never got Dave alone to speak to him ever and now was her chance to berate the hell out of him. She pressed answer and quickly put it to her ear.

"Well, well Dave..." She said in a menacing way. There was a weird chuckle on the other side.

"_Did you like that?_" the voice replied, "_I tried to work out a way to get you to pick up the phone willingly and I suppose I hit the right nerve!_"

"Who is this?" Ellen suddenly paused, slightly wigged out. The man on the other end swallowed and continued.

"_Look in your glove box._" He said simply. Ellen dropped the phone from her ear, almost ready to hang up, but another part of her was curious to see who this person was. It clearly wasn't Dave. So she brought it up to her ear and leaned over to the open glove box.

"What's this all abo –," she went to say as her eyes caught sight of what exactly sat in front of her. Her whole body tensed up and her voice caught in her throat.

"_Don't try and run._" The man commanded, "_It'll blow up before you can even wrench the door open._"

Ellen was still frozen staring back at the bomb that was intricately wired into her car, with a timer right at the front. It was set for 12 hours. At least the countdown on it hadn't begun yet.

"What do you want?" she managed to say. Again, the chuckling continued.

"_Just to test a few people…_" he giggled, before his voice became sterner, "_Oh and there's an ear piece under the visor. Put it on._"

Ellen lowered the phone to her side as she pulled down the car's sun visor to retrieve the piece. It fell gently into her lap and she put it on the free ear. It beeped and the man's voice echoed from it again as the call on the phone ended itself.

"_Well that's much better. Now we have some real work to do._" He said cheerfully, "_I need you to call someone, it's the only number programmed inside the phone. I'll instruct you what to say and if you think about changing anything… BOOM!_"


	3. The Great Game - Part Two

Authors Note: 

So I'm hoping to update every Sunday, although this chapter is coming a bit earlier just because I want to hook some more readers in. The Sherlock fanfic page is nuts with new stories every minute which makes it very easy to lose good ones from the first couple of pages within a day. Forgive me if I am tardy with update, I'll try not to be, but writing Sherlock fiction is not an easy feat!

I'd love if you'd be courteous enough to leave a review, constructive or otherwise. Don't forget to check out my polyvore account (same username) for some of the outfits the characters will (and do) wear throughout this story. ENJOY!

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**The Great Game – Part Two**

Sherlock, John and Lestrade all filed out of the taxi. John and Lestrade had no idea where Sherlock was taking them or why they had to stop back at Baker Street, but neither of them dare question the sleuth at work. Sherlock moved quickly until he was standing outside the door to 221C, shouting at Mrs. Hudson to bring him keys.

Shortly after the woman came bumbling down the hallway, jingling the keys to find the right one for the lock. Sherlock began to inspect the padlock of the door carefully.

"You had a look, didn't you, Sherlock. When you first came to see about your flat." Mrs. Hudson stated. Ignoring her comment Sherlock spoke,

"The door's been opened recently."

"No, can't be." Mrs. Hudson shook her head, "That's the only key."

She opened the padlock and pulled it off as Sherlock selected another key and put it into the keyhole.

"I can't get anyone interested in this flat." She rambled, "It's the damp, I expect. That's the curse of basements."

Sherlock turned the key and pulled the door open, quickly walking inside with John and Lestrade in tow. Mrs. Hudson continued to talk but it seemed that everyone took little, if any, notice to her. Once inside Sherlock moved to find a certain room, the one he knew to match the image sent to him in the text. Opening its door slowly he stared in ominously.

A pair of sneakers sat neatly in the middle of the room. Nothing else, just them.

"Shoes?" John questioned, moving in cautiously with Lestrade. Sherlock went to move forward before John cautioned him, "He's a bomber, remember."

Sherlock paused for a moment, taking the warning in before resuming his efforts to inspect the shoes. He crouched down, putting his hands gently on the floor, to steady himself while leaning forward. He lowered his body closer, his nose almost touching them, when suddenly the phone in his pocket began to ring. His heart jumped in its place as he stood up straightly and looked at the phone, which read, 'NUMBER BLOCKED'. He answered the call, placing it on loudspeaker. John and Lestrade moved closer and perked their ears in concern.

"Hello." Sherlock said softly.

"Hello… sexy." A woman's voice shakily spoke. The men in the room froze, fearing that their ears were deceiving them. This wasn't a hostage call… _was it_?

"Who's this?" Sherlock said in a grim voice. The woman lightly sobbed, before sniffling and continuing,

"I sent you… a little puzzle… just to say… hi."

"Who's talking?" Sherlock asked again.

"I'm not surprised you don't… recognize me." Her breaths were shallow and fearful.

"Why are you crying?" he asked, almost knowing the answer but needing to be sure.

"I'm not…" she sniffled again her voice clearer this time, "I'm not crying, this _stupid bitch_… can't seem to translate… my message very well."

Behind Sherlock, Lestrade's face had dropped. That time when she spoke, she was much more vindictive, angered by the situation she was in. He had heard a similar refrain in someone's voice before. In fact, he had heard it today.

"_Ellen?_" he moved closer to the phone. John and Sherlock looked at him worryingly.

"Looks… like… someone pays attention." She replied. Lestrade took a step back and muttered a curse under his breath, his fingers brushing through his hair in distress, "Twelve hours to… solve my puzzle Sherlock… Or I'm going to be so naughty."

And the phone hung up. The room was filled with silence as the three took in what had just happened.

"The curtain rises…" Sherlock said ambiguously.

"What?" John asked.

"Nothing."

"No, what did you mean?" John insisted. Sherlock stared him down,

"I've been expecting this for some time." He admitted.

"He took one of our own." Lestrade suddenly interrupted. John and Sherlock were hushed again, "Why would he take _her_?"

"I doubt _he_ specifically went after her, probably just the first person from the office he could get his hands on. Also don't dismiss the possibility of the kidnapper being a woman." Sherlock said in response, quite devoid of emotion.

"I shouldn't have let her head out." Lestrade continued, shaking his head.

"You couldn't have known." John replied, "None of us could."

"You need to solve this." Lestrade faced Sherlock and jabbed a finger at his chest. He was putting on a hard exterior and yet his hand betrayed him as it shook, "I need to call her sister."

vvvvvv

There was a police car out the front of the apartment. Beth had been collecting all her stuff to take back to Dave's, while he was at the pub up the road writing a poem for her. He was such a romantic. She noticed the officers get from their car and enter her complex. They'd been out here a lot lately; the Johnson's teenage son (who lived above Ellen and Beth) had a habit of getting into fights and setting things on fire. But when there was a knock at her door, she was only filled with confusion.

Putting down her box and throwing a towel inside it, she went to open the door to find the cops standing there for her.

"I was well within my rights protesting today!" she declared instantly and went to slam the door as a hand shot out and stopped her.

"It's about your sister." One of them shouted out as she tried to force the door closed. She stopped and let go, pulling the door back slowly.

"What about her?" she asked softly, brow furrowed in concern.

"We have reason to believe that she's been kidnapped." The other officer said carefully. Beth's face dropped and she was at a loss for words. Who would take Ellen? Why?

"I don't understand…" she said, looking around, fathoming their statement.

"We need to take you into the precinct, find out when the last time you saw was or any details about her day."

"Yeah, of course." Beth nodded, "Do you mind if I just grab my coat?"

Beth turned abruptly and walked into the room where she had been packing her belongings. She snatched her coat up off the ground and swapped her house slippers for a pair of leather boots. Lastly she grabbed her phone off the bed and stuffed it into her pocket, making her way back out into the living room where the officers were waiting.

Locking the door behind her, she was soon in the back of the police car and on her way to Scotland Yard, for a reason that she had never imagined. She pulled her phone out again and stared at it for a while. She should call their father, he needed to know, even if there wasn't anything he could do. But if she did, it would trudge up more than just worry for him. Beth would have to talk to him… she'd have to small talk. That was something she wasn't ready to do. She wasn't ready to let him back into their lives, or let him know she'd been booted from the force. So she put the phone back away, once they got Ellen back (and they would) she would get her big sister to tell him. Or maybe not… Regardless, it would all be a grand joke in hindsight, something to cringe terribly about. Because if Annabeth Harper was sure about anything, it was that she couldn't lose her sister as well.

Out the front of Scotland Yard, stood Inspector Lestrade. She'd met him on a few occasions when she was at work and even at functions with Ellen, namely the annual Christmas party. He had a sullen look on his face as he saw her. It seemed he was just as worried as she was.

"We'll find her." He said as Beth neared. She nodded blankly, still not having processed the situation entirely.

"Is there anything I can do? I mean I know I'm not officially police anymore, but I could be of some use." She asked anxiously.

"We just need to get some statements, otherwise we've got half the department on it." He let a tight smile appear on his face, trying to comfort her.

"Then let's do this. The quicker we get her home, the happier everyone will be."

vvvvvv

Ellen was still sitting inside her car. After hanging up from talking with Sherlock Holmes she had this rage inside of her and it wasn't the detectives fault in the slightest. She dried all her tears and found the croakiness in her voice had disappeared. More than anything she was just mad. Mad that she had gotten herself into this mess and mad that some lunatic got off on this. But most of all, angered by the fact that she had let herself cry for this guy. She had let him have more control over her than she should have allowed anyone.

Twelve hours. That was all she had for Holmes and Watson to solve this, otherwise the man on the other end of the phone would blow her to kingdom come. Her office job was supposed to keep her away from the actual crime, she was just supposed to analyse people. Since waking up this morning she had dealt with Lestrade's naïve advances, Sally and Anderson's whinging, a rude meeting with Holmes himself, multiple altercations with her sister and now it seemed, a hostage situation. She was not equipped for this level of soap opera drama.

She looked at the time on the dashboard. She'd been in her car for almost an hour now. If she knew Greg Lestrade like she thought she did, he'd have contacted Beth by now. That made the guilt inside of Ellen only grow. As much as she enjoyed fighting with her sister about every minute thing, she loved Annabeth to death. After everything they had been through in the past two years, they were each other's everything. Sometimes Ellen even thought the reason why she hated Dave so much was because he took more of her sister's attention up than she did. Then she would remember the pungent odor that wafted from him every time he put his armpits up and hugged her. No, she definitely was not jealous of Dave Sommersby.

The hours wore on and Ellen found her stomach beginning to rumble. She hadn't eaten anything today besides a piece of toast and a couple of sips of the coffee, which she stupidly handed to Anderson. She should have kept it; she may not have been so hungry as she was now. But it was a welcomed distraction from the ticking bomb inside her car's glove box. She had even left the radio playing to help sooth her nerves. The movies made the hostage situation far more interesting, when really it was just a lot of waiting around and hoping that the person in charge didn't feel like killing you today.

Six hours left and the sun was beginning to set from what she could see at the entrance of the car park. That was all right, she still had six hours. Six hours was pretty long, like a weekend shift in the precinct. Sherlock Holmes had solved cases much faster than six hours. She knew, she'd read the blog. She had to trust that this time would be no different.

And Ellen Harper would be right in assuming that it wasn't. But James Moriarty loved games. He hated being bored. So after creating the ploy to kidnap her, he wasn't about to give her up so quickly. When he extracted a response from those in Sherlock's company, he knew a new pressure would be placed on the sleuth. Moriarty had something up his sleeve, something that would toy with the detective and confuse him to his wit's end.

Three hours and it was finally dark. Now the nerves were really starting to set in. Her hunger was still there but she paid far less attention to it than before. The madness that had been strong in her this morning was becoming something akin to desperation. What was taking him so long? Why wouldn't he just hurry up? She wasn't ready to die; she still had so much in the world to give. Oh, if she was starting to believe clichéd crap like that, she really was getting desperate!

Across town, at 221B Baker Street, Sherlock paced in his apartment. His eye jumped back onto the lense of the microscope as Mrs. Hudson came through the kitchen door with a tray of mugs. As she placed them beside him, he shot back up.

"Poison." He declared.

"What you going on about?" Mrs. Hudson questioned.

"Clostridium Botulinum!" he slammed his hands down onto the table. Mrs. Hudson cringed and left him alone in the kitchen. Sherlock pivoted on his heel to look at John as he entered the living room.

"It's one of the deadliest poisons on the planet!" he stated, as John looked at him blankly, "Carl Powers!"

"Oh wait, are you saying he was murdered?" John tilted his head. Sherlock raced around to where he had hung the laces from the trainers up.

"Remember the shoelaces?" he asked, John nodded, "The boy suffered from eczema. It'd be the easiest thing in the world, to introduce the poison into his medication. Two hours later he comes up to London, the poison takes effect, paralyses the muscles and he drowns."

"What?" John stood up, "How…how come the autopsy didn't pick that up?"

"It's virtually undetectable. Nobody would have been looking for it." Sherlock walked around the table to where his computer sat. He opened it to reveal his own web page forum and began to type into the message box:

**FOUND. Pair of trainers belonging to Carl Powers (1978-1989)**

He straightened up and pointed to the laces,

"…But there were still tiny traces of it left inside the trainers from where he put the cream on his feet." He nodded to himself and finished typing:

**Botulinum toxin still present. Apply 211b Baker St.**

"That's why they had to go." He pressed send and stood tall again.

"So how do we let the bomber know?" John asked him.

"Get his attention." He eyed the page on his own blog, nervously waiting, "Stop the clock." He muttered jittery, looking at his watch.

"The killer kept the shoes, all these years." John was trying to deduct something.

"Yes." Sherlock egged him on, "Meaning…?"

"He's our bomber." John stated. As he did the pink phone began to ring. Sherlock scrambled to pick it up and answer the call. The voice sounded firmer then before, it was still the same person, just there was an element of calmness in it.

"Well done, you. Come and get me." Ellen Harper's voice echoed eerily though the speaker.

"Where are you? Tell us where you are." Sherlock said loud and clearly and instantly she blurted out her location, a sigh of relief at the end.

Sherlock called Lestrade as soon as Ms. Harper was off the phone, they had to get the bomb squad out to the underground car park she had given them the location, located near Scotland Yard.

John and Sherlock could relax for the time being. This case was solved and possibly it would be the last they heard from this mysterious bomber. That was until fifteen minutes later Sherlock's actual phone began to ring. It was Lestrade. Sherlock answered, curious to know what the urgency was.

"He blew it up." Was all Lestrade said at first as the sound of sirens wailed behind him. There was an unfamiliar shift in Lestrade's tone. He sounded croaky and exhausted, like he had been screaming until he had almost lost his voice.

"But we played by his rules…" Sherlock glowered. He was slightly angry inside. Why would the bomber go to such extremes only to destroy everything? Where was the fun in that?

"What about the hostage?" John asked over Sherlock's shoulder, immediately worried.

"The whole bottom level's come down." Greg said, "If she's in there, we won't find her for a couple of days." His words sounded empty, void of emotion.

"Geez…" John shook his head, leaning on the fireplace in frustration. Sherlock had to pause to understand what was happening around him. Even though he had succeeded, somehow to everyone else he had failed. But the worst part was that maybe he felt a pang of remorse. Like this woman's death really wasn't necessary. Yes people died everyday, but not like that. Not so alone and afraid. So Sherlock mustered up something unlikely, something he would likely deny if anyone ever brought it up.

"Lestrade…" he said softly, "I am sorry. Really."

"Yeah." Lestrade sounded like he had sniffled, "She was a good… Well, she was just good." And then the phone beeped and Lestrade had hung up.


	4. The Great Game - Part Three

Authors Note:

Thanks for the favourites, follows and reviews! I do appreciate them a lot. So far I've been good with the updating, I'm trying to keep one chapter ahead at any given time. Also, if you haven't seen my profile notes you won't know who I have cast in all the roles.

Ellen Harper- Gugu M'batha Raw

Beth Harper- Kat Graham

Dave Sommersby- Robert Sheehan

Peter Harper- Danny Glover

The rest are already the normal Sherlock cast :) Don't forget to leave a review, they feed my creativity!

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**The Great Game – Part Three**

As she had hung up with Sherlock, Ellen finally felt safe. She knew that this whole ordeal would be coming to an end. One thing was for sure; she'd never be parking in this place again. She waited, but it was a good patience this time, a hopeful one. All until the door to the SUV opened.

This whole time she hadn't even bothered to take notice of it. The glass on it was heavily tinted and it wasn't like she could see in even if she wanted to. So out of this car stepped two masked men, one with a riffle and the other with a pair of cuffs and a bag. She gasped and her heart began to beat fast in its place.

"No…" she whispered, "No, no, no! This is supposed to be over."

One of them ripped her door open and grabbed her by the collar of her shirt. She fell from his grasp onto the ground, as he held her to attach the shackles.

"Please." She pleaded, feeling the water well in her eyes again, "Just let me go!"

"Boss has other plans." The beefy one said, yanking her back to her feet and throwing the bag over her head. She fought him with all her might, kicking and screaming against him as he threw her over his shoulder.

"Shut up, bitch." The other hit her over the head with his gun and then she was silent. Her body went limp at they put her in the back seat of the SUV, buckled her in and left the place. As they drove away, there was a loud and distinctive bang. It shook the ground and rung in the ears of anyone nearby. The sound of Ellen's car exploding in the parking lot. That would throw the cops off their scent for a little while longer.

vvvvvv

Beth had been pacing back and forth inside Ellen's apartment. Every inch of her body ached with nervousness. After she'd gone to the precinct Dave had gone back to find her and called her worried. She explained everything and now there she was, while he sat on the lounge and watched her panic.

"Baby," he got to his feet and held her in a tight embrace, "Chill."

"Chill, Dave? _Chill_?" she shook him off, "My sister's been kidnapped by a crazy serial bomber and all I can do to help is wait around in her apartment and hope that she'll walk in all chipper."

"Beating yourself up isn't making her come back any sooner." Dave said back, a strange malice behind his words. For all his harshness, he was right. It sucked major ass that she couldn't do much, but the one thing that she could do was stay strong. That's what the Harpers did. They had the gold medal in keeping themselves together during tragedy.

"Sit down with me and we'll watch some telly." Dave pulled her by the waist, and they collapsed into the leather couch, his arm still wrapped tenderly around her. As soon as he pressed the on button on the television remote, the preprogramed news channel came up. It was covering the headlines. There'd been another bombing, one a couple of blocks away from where Ellen worked. Beth felt her chest tighten. She sat up straight, snatched the remote and began to frantically turn up the volume.

"_And the biggest headline of the evening, there's been another gas explosion in London today in an underground car park. Currently emergency teams are working to stabilized the five-storey building above. There has been no causality reports as of yet. Although police believe that there was one person inside when the place blew, Ellen Harper age 35, an employee at New Scotland Yard. It's hectic out here as emergency crews try to find one of their own, but as you can see behind me, the rubble and destruction is thick. If Ms. Harper is alive under there, we're all praying for her._"

Beth began to cry. She just stood and ran away from the TV, into the bathroom and wept. She didn't know how long she was in there for. Dave kept trying to coax her out, but she wouldn't have a bar of it. Beth just sat on the cold tiles of her sister's apartment and gave up. There was one person she wanted to be with right now and as much as she appreciated Dave's efforts, she needed someone else to be there for her.

Finally drying her eyes she stood up and walked blankly out from the bathroom back into the living room, Dave trailed in confusion. She headed straight towards the coffee table where her phone sat and picked it up. She dialed the only number she could remember. Beth called for her father.

"Hello, Peter Harper speaking." Her dad spoke, he sounded like he didn't have a clue as to what was going on.

"Daddy…" Beth drawled out, whimpering, "It's Beth."

"Sweetheart…" he became concerned, "What's wrong."

"Have you turned on the news?" Beth asked him ominously. She could hear him them move about trying to get his telly on. There was silence as he saw what Beth could see; the images of the destruction and the picture of Ellen's face. His breathing hitched slightly as he took the information in.

"I need you to come over." Beth finally broke the silence, "Do you need the address?"

"No, I'll be right over." He said stalely.

"I love you. You know that right." Beth found herself crying again.

"I know sweet-pea. I love you too."

When an hour later there was a knock on the door, Beth got to her feet speedily to open it. Standing there, suit and briefcase, was her father. Peter was a rather stern man, he'd learnt to cultivate the perfect hardened exterior. When you work for the government, strength in character got you far. Not Beth, nor Ellen, had any idea how far he was actually up in the ladder but they suspected it was marginally from the top. He had never been out of money to spend.

But the Peter that Beth knew had disappeared momentarily, replaced by a sodden and broken individual. It was really strange to see her father like that. She'd only seen him looking like this one other time, at her mother's funeral. He dropped the bag and reached out for his youngest daughter, wrapping her up in a tight hug. He smelt of his familiar cologne, one that Beth had grown up with. He pulled back and stroked her face gently.

"It's gonna be alright." He cooed as Beth moved away to shut the door. This was a private moment that the rest of the apartment block didn't need to be privy to.

"You saw the images." Beth shook her head, "No one could make it alive from that."

"If anyone could, it's Ellen." Peter said abruptly, "Don't give up until it's over."

"I'm not giving up. I'm just being realistic. I'm not going to work myself up into hoping that she may be alive just to have it all turn out to be a lie." Beth replied, her demeanor shifting. Peter frowned at Beth, speechless. His eyes quickly glanced over to see Dave silently watching on the couch.

"Who's this?" he asked, straightening his coat jacket.

"This is Dave, my boyfriend." Beth smiled as Dave got to his feet and came to shake Peter's hand.

"Does he have a last name?" Peter eyed Dave off. He had recalled Ellen not being very impressed by someone of the same name in a phone conversation a couple of months back.

"Sommersby." Dave neared and the men shook hands.

"Ahh…" Peter said knowingly.

"You and Ellen had been in touch then." Beth said with a slight chuckle and Peter nodded guiltily.

"I'm gonna head out." Dave said after a moment of silence, "Give you and your dad some time to catch up." He grabbed his coat off the back of the dining table.

"Good man." Peter nodded thankfully and clapped him on the back as the boyfriend left. Beth opened the door and he kissed her lightly on the cheek before disappearing into the stairwell of the building. When she turned back, her father had gone into the kitchen and had begun to make some tea. She locked the door once more and came to his side.

"How much do you know?" she asked him. He knew what she meant.

"Well I know about him," Peter pointed, "And I know about you getting fired."

"Ellen promised she wouldn't say anything to you about it." Beth groaned.

"She didn't." Peter tapped the side of his nose. Beth couldn't help but roll her eyes as she grabbed the cups out of the cupboard.

"I should have figured you'd keep an eye on me."

"I don't do it to be nosey." Peter stopped for a moment and looked his daughter dead in the eyes, "I know you like your independence, but I worry about you."

"Except when you worry you hire government agents to watch me." Beth laughed vindictively.

"I know it's a bit unorthodox." Peter tried to laugh with her, but could feel an unspoken tension between the two. It had been a long time since they'd been in the same room, let alone spoken. It was horrible that the only thing that could bring them together was death. That hurt him more than words could describe. Peter pored the tea and then the two moved into the lounge room.

"I want you to know that the next time I see you it won't be because someone we love is hurt." Peter said, placing his teacup on the tea table.

"You only have yourself to blame for that." Beth responded.

"I know that after your mother died I didn't do you or Ellen right. We should have been there together as a family and I was selfish. I thought that if I busied myself in my work that it would all be alright. I should have come to the funeral." Peter admitted. With the news of Ellen and now his confusion he looked greatly dejected.

"Geez dad." Beth scoffed and shook her head, "That's the lamest excuse you could have given me. I didn't care that you two broke up. I wouldn't have cared if you had killed her. I just needed you there and you weren't."

"It can be as lame as it wants, as long as it's the truth." Peter looked Beth in the eyes, watery.

"I called you. I left messages, praying and hoping that you would just come. For weeks after I tried to talk to you and you weren't to be found." Beth ran her fingers through her hair, "I know I called you here, but that doesn't mean that you're forgiven."

"I don't expect your forgiveness for one second. Just a chance at redemption."

"Good. Because I'd like that too."

vvvvvv

When Ellen finally woke again, she found herself bound and gagged to a chair, her earpiece still attached. The more she looked around the more she noticed she was in a small room. She didn't fidget or even try to escape; she just began to examine the place she was in. It wasn't likely she'd get her way out of here with sheer force or even skill, but she had to try. She had learnt some basic self-defense thanks to her overbearing father, but that all went out the window in the past twelve hours. This was an impossible situation, not something that a crash course really covered.

The room was practically empty; all that resided inside was two chairs. One in front of her and the one she was sitting on. The wallpaper was old and peeling. There was piles of dust scattered across the floor, she almost felt inclined to sneeze. Above her sat one flickering fluorescent light, it's buzzing was background music to her clichéd situation. Someone was going to come in soon. Ellen could feel it in her bones. She wasn't sure who, it could be her kidnapper himself, some hired gun or it could be someone throwing food at her. She hadn't eaten for a while now and the moment she let the thought of it creep into her mind her stomach shook violently, aching and groaning for a morsel.

But there was one thing she knew for sure and that was that she couldn't give them satisfaction. Dealing with psychopaths on a daily basis meant that she knew how they worked. She knew the way the processed the world around them and why the interacted with it in the way they did. Ellen Harper knew for a fact that kidnappers looked for a thrill and saw the whole scenario like a game that they could control and exploit at any opportunity. For that reason more than ever, she needed to have courage. She couldn't shed any more tears. She couldn't let the sick son of a bitch win.

"_How do you like the room? Has a rather shabby chic vibe to it, don't you think._"That chilling voice spoke through her earpiece. She should have known he wouldn't meet her face to face. If she ever wanted to get out of this situation alive there was no way in hell that she'd be allowed to identify him. She knew he was a male and that's the way he would keep it.

"It needs a good shag rug to finish it off." Ellen bit back, her words whistling out of gritted teeth.

"_I'll have to give a note to my decorator_." The kidnapper toyed further. Ellen stayed quiet and waited for what he would throw at her next. After an abrupt clearing of the throat he continued on, "_I suppose you're wondering what I'm going to make you do next but I think leaving you in suspense is far more intriguing. But how about a little riddle to keep you thinking?_"

"How about you stop playing stupid games and let me go." Ellen said as she began to pry her hands from the rope binding them. Instantly the door to her cell swung open and in walked a man, clad in only black, with a black ski mask covering his face. She froze for a moment as their eyes met, wondering whether he was here to kill her or not. As her eyes drifted from his gaze she found herself staring at the sharp knife in his left hand. That was definitely intended for her.

"_Ooooh. Don't be a spoil sport._" The man's voice suddenly sprung to life again as his chuckle deafened one ear, "_Ms. Harper I'd like you to meet Günther. He's here to ensure that you stay put in that chair of yours. Anyway, where was I? Oh yes I was about to tell you a riddle. _

"_A man is trapped in a dungeon, in a castle, in a far away land. There are two doors in this dungeon each with possible exits on the other side; but there are no windows or secret entrances and nothing but thick stonewalls all around. He can't dig his way out even if he tried. The first door leads to a room with a fire-breathing dragon but also another door with the way out. But the second leads to a hallway of magnifying glasses that magnify the sun's rays and will burn to a crisp if he steps foot inside. He has no weapons to defeat the dragon and nothing to protect him from the sun. So… how does he get out?_"

Ellen listened intensely and when he was finished the silence resumed. It had to be a test of sorts, something that would pay out eventually. But at the same time it could just be the ramblings of the man's insanity. It was hard to tell. One thing was for sure that the answer was simple. She had heard it before, albeit a different variation, but still the same answer.

"He leaves through the second door, when night falls." She replied, her voice echoing through the room. Günther looked at her oddly, as if he thought _she_ were mad. Ellen had almost forgotten that she was the only one that could hear her kidnapper talk.

"_Very good Elley!_" the man spoke shrilly, she only scowled. Oh how she hated pet names! She almost went to speak back again, that was before Günther started to move closer. Her jaw clenched as he walked behind her, his shoes squeaking as he did. This was it, it was going to be the end. The brave face she had held began to crumble as her lip twitched and a tiny whimper forced its way out. She tried to turn her head around to see what he was doing but his firm hand gripped onto her chin and stopped her. Günther was going to slit her throat. It was going to be a pathetic, sad and lonely death. She had imagined how she might die before, of old age or even like her mother. Despite the way news circulated in and out of her life, and even the crime cases she dealt with on a daily basis, it never occurred that she could meet an end just like this.

So as the world slowly came to an end, she took in one final breath and closed her eyes as the blade was being raised in the air. It came down in one swift movement, slicing clean. Ellen braced for the pain, the feeling of torn flesh. She was prepared for her neck to be split open and to choke on her own blood. It would have been reasonably quick. Instead she found herself wondering if this was how is really felt, if there was no pain at all, just silence. Then, by some strange miracle she felt the tightness that bound her hands disappear. Then her legs, until rather than being a bloody mess she was simply untied. That breath she had been holding onto was suddenly released and the air flowed back into her lungs. It stung at first, her body almost wanted to give up, it had been so ready to just die. But as it filled her over and over again, and she panted out of relief, a wave of calm washed over. When she looked up, she saw Günther leaving the room. Just before the door slammed though, someone slid in a plate of food and things got just a little better.

"_I remember the first time my mother told me that riddle and I only argued that dragons didn't exist._" The voice returned, "_Anyway, as a reward, enjoy something to eat. We've got some more work to do soon._"

Ellen didn't really care about his ramblings, all she cared about was the freedom in her wrists and ankles, and the wonderful sensation of a peanut butter sandwich gracing her taste buds.


	5. The Great Game - Part Four

Authors Note:

I'm so happy with the direction this story is moving in and I'm excited as I get new followers. I won't let you guys down, I swear. Just as little pre-warning/spoiler you may want to brush up on you knowledge of Shakespeare's Othello. It's not totally necessary but if you know it you may pick up on a little references here and there; some foreshadowing. It's going to play a crucial role in how some of my mysteries will play out!

**Please** don't forget to review and follow. I need them to flourish!

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**The Great Game – Part Four**

Peter sat in the living room with his youngest daughter silently. Their tea had gone cold a while ago and their conversation has died with it. Peter had spoken some more to Beth, tried to reconcile for his actions and she was all too ready to forgive him. But being a Harper like she was, it wasn't in her nature to let him get off without a little bit of suffering. She'd drag on her reluctance until the end of the night and then there was no doubt they'd be back to speaking terms again. The Harper girls had a tendency of being hard skinned; almost immovable once they'd had their mind set to something. That was something they had gained off of their deceased mother, Heather.

Heather had been an exquisite woman. Funny, kind and courageous. She had the most gorgeous ebony skin in all of Europe, many would agree. Her long black hair had been just as envied; until the cancer struck. It had been a slow and degrading battle. Despite all of Heather's strength and optimism she didn't pull through. Beth and Ellen had visited her mother everyday in hospital as the end drew nearer, bringing her fresh flowers. Beth would tell stories of her police training while Ellen would read Heather's favourite John Donne poems. 'The Sun Rising' had been more frequently visited than most. But Peter was never in sight. The year previously, his government work became more important than his family, and with a heavy heart the two had separated. It had seemed like Peter and Heather And even though he had truly loved Heather he couldn't find it in himself to speak to her, he couldn't taint his memory of what she was in his mind. As pathetic of an excuse as it was, it was something that Beth had to come to terms with.

"I'm not a hero, sweetheart." He finally declared, "I'm your imperfect asshole of a father and I'm sorry."

Beth nodded in response and gave him a weak smile. She stood from the couch and began to collect the cups to wash up.

"I need to go over to Dave's he's got the solution for my contact lenses." She replied, eying her father's reaction in the kitchen.

"That's not code for-," Peter went to question.

"No, it's not code for sex dad." She grabbed her jacket and went for her scarf, "But I'm sure with all the stalking you've been doing you already know our code."

"Thankfully, I do not." Peter grimaced and almost looked like her threw up in his mouth a little bit.

"You can stay here. Or not. Just don't wait up for me to come back." Beth turned the keys in the lock, starting into the stairwell. Peter got to his feet to close the door behind his daughter when she turned back one last time, "By the way. She still looked like an angel, even if she was frail and had no hair."

Then Beth was gone and Peter let out a sigh of relief. He knew exactly what was going on, he had only hoped that it would be someone less important in his life. They should have taken his secretary or something. Taking Ellen was over stepping the mark. Peter reached into his pocket drawing out his phone and dialling the first number that came to mind; James Moriarty's number.

When the phone was answered, Moriarty's chilling laugh echoed. Peter felt his jaw clench as his thoughts were confirmed. The bombings and Ellen's kidnapping had indeed been the work of the consulting criminal.

"Jim, I want her back now. The bombing was impressive and you've made your point. I'll stay." Peter spoke first, he was not in the mood for Moriarty's childish games.

"You think this is about you Harper?" James snapped back, "Do as you please, quit. Run back off to serve Queen and country. I'll still kill you for it, but I have greater plans for this daughter of yours."

"If you so much as harm one hair on her head-,"

"Whoops." Jim chuckled, "Too late for that."

"I'll kill you, you son-of-a-bitch."

"I see where she gets her fire from. But insults and death threats will get you nowhere Peter. She lives as long as Sherlock Holmes solves my puzzles. But how about I cut you a deal?"

"I'm listening." Peter drew out.

"I'm going to leave her a puzzle, just one. If she works it out, she gets to come home and you and your family are free. You can leave and have faith in both your daughter's safety. I mean, her life is still in the hands of that dull detective, so if he slips up I'll still blow her to pieces. But maybe she can prove herself before his timer runs out."

"And what if she doesn't?" Peter dared to question.

"Then you, me and Nickolas Night can have a long chat about loyalty before I get him to blow your brains out." Jim chided, "Goodnight Mr. Harper. Don't let the bed bugs bite." And with that the familiar hum of the dial tone echoed in Peter's ear. But Peter was not nearly done. He had one more call to make tonight and a long overdue favour to cash in. Nickolas Night owed Peter a lot. Now it was payday.

vvvvvv

Ellen couldn't believe the predicament she was in. Back against a cell wall and furiously devouring a peanut butter sandwich, she would have killed to have a nut allergy. Maybe this madness could end. _No_. Ellen was stronger than that. She didn't want to die, not really. Perhaps her life wasn't as exciting as most people. She'd never travelled, or had many notable hobbies. She had been a plain nobody, until suddenly she'd been turned into a bear. Now someone was poking her with a stick and it wouldn't be long before she turned around and began her own rampage.

She had begun to build a profile of her kidnapper. He had a very peculiarly accent, if she was right he must have been Irish. There was a clear Dubliner flow to his words, not that that specifically narrowed down who he was. Ellen didn't know any Irish people, so he wasn't any associate of hers. He clearly liked to play games also. She had a strong feeling that the riddle he had given her earlier was not the last. If he toyed with Mr. Holmes like that, then why would anybody else be different. At the moment he was a mystery and shrouding himself in riddles and games made analysing him only that much harder.

She finished her sandwich and allowed her head to rest against the concrete, taking in one large breath. This man had a fancy for attention to detail, but like all puzzles, the trick of a riddle was always in the wording. The answer had to be staring her in the face. Ellen got to her feet and properly inspected the room. There was one light, hung from the ceiling, fluorescent bulb. The peeling wallpaper had a recurring image, a black and white ornate symbol. It was almost like some kind of flower. Upon closer inspection the wall had holes in it, like bullet marks. Of course, Ellen couldn't miss the big yellow smiley face of the far wall. She hadn't seen it before, being turned away from it, but now it was as prominent as ever. The floors were a cold concrete and the chairs in the room were stainless steel, bolted to the ground. No windows and no other doors.

Ellen even checked underneath the seats for possible clues. For keys… For something… For _anything_. Then as if the light bulb had metaphorically appeared over her head, she stood up tall and glanced over at the tray her sandwich had been slid in on. Lining the tray had been an old newspaper, which she hadn't noticed until now.

Ellen bent down and brushed the crumbs away with her hand. The paper had been dated back to several months ago and the headline read as follows: '_Night in Shining Armour. Minister Inducted as Secretary of State for Defence'_. Ellen kept reading on.

**_"Night In Shining Armour. Minister Inducted as Secretary of State for Defence._**

Earlier today Nickolas Night, Minister for Transport was promoted to Minister for Defence. The news comes in the wake of Minister Thomas Brady's resignation after several witnesses came forth claiming Brady's involvement in embezzlement and corruption which was confirmed in front of a magistrate last Tuesday.

Night was eager to take up the role and commented 'Brady's actions have been irresponsible and plainly unjust to the British taxpayers. 'I promise to restore voter confidence and stability through my new role and do what I'm supposed to. Keep this country safe'."

A plastered next to the headline was a picture of the smiling Minister Night. Ellen frowned out of confusion. On any other occasion she didn't really give a damn about politics, it caused way too many arguments in her household. But now she wasn't confused because she didn't know who the politicians were, in fact the exact opposite. Ellen knew Nickolas Night. He was an old family friend of her father's. She seen him at many family dinners and get-togethers, but what was really strange was the last time that she had seen the man. It was no secret that Ellen's father was deeply involved in the government. While he was not the face of it like Night was, she knew the two of them had worked closely for many years. She had remembered that evening ever so clearly. It had been the first time she had spoken to her father after her Mother's death.

Peter and Ellen had dinner reservations. It had been time for them to open up to one another and set things of their past aside, so Ellen had planned a nice dinner in an open place so both of them would be forced to keep their voices down. The screaming matches the Harper's created never ended in a victor. Period. Everything was picture perfect, until Peter arrived. He was pissed off his face, shouting and laughing at the top of his lungs. He couldn't contain a single thought. It had been twenty minutes in when Night had arrived with his wife, casually unaware. He tried to greet Peter when he saw the two but before any greetings could be exchanged, Peter was on his feet, fists flying. There had been reporters everywhere. Ellen couldn't even remember how it was possible for so many people with cameras to be in one place and any given time. Her father had begun to violently beat Night and the restaurant staff had been forced to step in and drag him off his bloodied friend. Ellen had never known what the fight had been about, whether it was her father's drunkenness or possibly something else at play. All she had known was that the next day her father had come back to her apartment to apologise and to tell her that he had been demoted because of his actions. Apparently, the secret service weren't fans of their men beating up public servants.

And now reading this news article, everything about Night had suddenly become very shady. She didn't read the article as 'Nickolas Night gets inducted by his own merit', it read 'Thomas Brady booted… replaced by slightly less sketchy Night'. A cold shiver passed up Ellen's spine and a lump formed in her chest. This wasn't the last newspaper she was going to get, that was certain.

"_I see you've noticed my next clue_." The voice jeered in her earpiece, jolting her upright, "_Good on you_."

"What does Night have to do with anything?"

"_Everything…_" the man said softly, "_And nothing_."

Ellen sat in her position, in silence. All she could hear was her own breathing as the hairs on the back of her neck began to prick. Something about the newspaper wasn't right. The grammar and spelling was all fine, but there was something deeper; unsettling. Her kidnapper was still one step ahead. That needed to change and quickly.

"_I need you to make another call_." The comment was demanding, like the fun and games had been stripped back. As the man spoke the door to her cell opened yet again and in walker Günther. In the big man's hands were two items; in the left a gun was gripped tightly and in the other was the familiar pink phone. Günther didn't make a sound but merely threw the phone in Ellen's direction, which she caught in air.

"_Same rules as last time. You tell them anything, anything that I don't allow you to and Günther's going to put a lovely piece of lead through your pretty little skull."_

Ellen gulped and reached for the phone, unlocking it and going straight to the only contact in its system. As she pressed call and pressed the device to her ear she couldn't help but feel slightly relieved. She didn't know why, but she did. Something about the consulting detective was soothing and more than ever, Ellen Harper needed that.

vvvvvv

The lights were swirling red and blue. The tape sectioning off the public from the bombsite was glowing luminescent, as Sherlock lifted it above his head and waltz on in. Instantly he was met by an array of shouting and officers trying to push him back behind the line.

"Sherlock!" John was shouting behind as he finally caught up, ducking under the tape as well.

"No civilians." Two officers tried to push them back as Lestrade finally caught sight of the ordeal and marched over.

"It's okay mates. Let 'em through." He commanded and the two officers scowled but did as he asked.

To put it lightly, Lestrade was a mess. He had bags under his eyes and a look on his face of utter dejection. In the force, there was always good and bad days. There was fantastic chases and mysteries to be solved, those were the reasons why Lestrade didn't completely appose the idea of Sherlock's and his deductions. But then there were days like today, where everything went from shit to more shit, until everything around was a giant pile unbearable choking shit. There were things that Lestrade had seen in this line of work that haunted him when he closed his eyes and now there was just one more thing to add to that terrible list.

Greg still had a inkling of hope, call it foolish, but he did. Everyone on site could see, most especially Sherlock Holmes, and it was that reason that when someone declared they'd found a body that Lestrade could have swooned.

"Alive?" he pivoted on his heel and ran towards where the shout had come, Sherlock and John in close tow. Below, amongst the rubble were members of the bomb squad, pulling at the broken pieces of concrete as quickly as humanly possible. Out the bottom of a large slab was a foot, the black heeled pump barely gripping onto it.

Sherlock was taking it all in, perplexed by the mystery that this bomber had created. He couldn't tear his eyes away as the final pieces of rubble were removed and the girl's body sat lifeless on display.

"Jesus." John stepped back with a sigh, averting his eyes. Lestrade had had a similar reaction to John's only a tad more dramatic. At the reveal, he too looked away. A heavy breath left his chest and he struggled to capture more air. His brows contorted with confusion, anger… sadness. As he let his mind process the information the anger grew more prominent across his face. He stood still, his lip curling in distain. His breathing labored as he struggled not to beat the shit out of someone.

But Sherlock's eyes stayed locked on. It was a gruesome sight, whatever was left of Ms. Harper wasn't much to go on. Her face was deformed due to the impact of the explosion, there was holes where shrapnel had ripped through her soft flesh and blood continued to leak from every crevice the woman had. But it was as Sherlock inspected the body further that he drew one straightforward conclusion. _This was not Ellen Harper_.

"Arhhhh!" Lestrade screamed and belted the side of a paramedic van with his fist. Its bang echoed across the scene and the crowd watching on went silent, "This is my fault."

"Greg…" John stepped forward to try and comfort the other man, "This isn't your fault in the slightest."

"No, not at all!" Lestrade said, throwing his hands in the air, "How am I supposed to do my job properly when I can't even keep the people in my command safe, let alone an entire city?"

"Don't make a fool of yourself." Sherlock turned to him with a scowl on his face. Lestrade's head swung quickly in his direction as his feet took off too.

"How dare you." Lestrade held his fists forward.

"It's not Ms. Harper." Sherlock said dryly and Lestrade came to an immediate halt.

"What?" Lestrade's jaw dropped.

"Must I repeat myself? I thought I was clear." Sherlock rolled his eyes, a scoff sat at the back of his throat ready to be unleashed.

"Wait, what are you talking about?" John asked, confused. Like a cue, that scoff was released into the night and Sherlock's famous eye roll was an added bonus.

"Look at her clothes." He pointed back to the body, "It's almost an exact recreation of her outfit but look at the length of the skirt. Ms. Harper had a skirt an inch longer than the one on whoever that lady is. I'm sure once you get the body back for examination you'll find that indeed it's someone else."

And just to add to more of the drama of the moment, the pink phone that the bomber called from sounded a text alert. Sherlock swiftly pulled it from his pocket, and the screen read 'YOU HAVE ONE NEW MESSAGE'. Activating the phone there was the sounded for three clear Greenwich pips and one long one.

"Four pips." John stated as the men all looked at one another.

"First test passed it would seem, here's the second." Sherlock replied as a photo came up on the screen on the phone; A close-up of a car with it's driver's door open and number plate clearly visible.

"It's abandoned wouldn't you say?" Sherlock deduced.

"I'll see if it's been reported." Lestrade whipped his own mobile out and began to frantically dial. Sherlock craned his neck forward to get a closer look at the image when an incoming call took over the device instead. John looking on, became perplexed, staring at Sherlock for some kind of answer. Sherlock nodded and put the phone to his ear.

"Hello?"

"It's okay you've gone to the police." A woman's voice spoke through the speaker. Sherlock felt a wave of relief wash over him as he recognised the voice. It was indeed their little kidnap victim, risen from the dead, "But don't rely on them."

"Have they hurt you?" Sherlock said softly, needing to test a theory.

"Clever you, guessing about Carl Powers." She continued on, ignoring his question. She must have been prompted by something or someone, "I never liked him. Carl laughed at me, so I stopped him laughing."

"You've stolen a voice, you really should give it back." Sherlock prodded.

"This is about you and me." At this line Ellen sounded very put off. For most of the call she had been reasonably well composed, something that Sherlock had underestimated.

"Who are _you_?

"Wouldn't you like to know." Ellen's voice rung with an eerie quality that wasn't her own. Suddenly Sherlock felt a great sense of unease in his gut, everything was very much real. This wasn't but a simple game anymore.

"You solved my last puzzle in nine hours. This time you have eight and while you try to solve it, she'll be solving mine."

Lestrade stepped forward off his phone with a relieved look on his face, "We've found it."

And Sherlock's phone went dead, the beeping hollow and foreboding. He slipped the phone back into his pocket and nodded in Lestrade's direction,

"He's still got her, we've got eight hours."


	6. The Great Game - Part Five

Authors Note:

Thanks for the follows and favourites. They mean heaps. If it's not too much of an ask don't forget to **leave a review**.

Also a pre warning for next week, I won't be updating as I have a comic-book expo on all weekend. Sorry! We're almost at the end of The Great Game now maybe another three or four and then we're moving onto S2E01 - A Scandal in Belgravia!

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**The Great Game – Part Five**

The night was cool. In London, it never was anything else. Even when the summer rolled round, when the sun went down you would be sure it was winter. Tonight though, the air was chilly for darker reasons, as shadows of Peter Harper's past came back to haunt him. In the abandoned car park, Peter's parka was all that stood between him and the biting cold. His car sat in park, the headlights on, waiting for Nickolas Night to arrive.

Peter had known Nickolas for a good portion of his life, heck the man was the closest thing to a best friend. So when five years ago, Night walked into Peter's office and told him all about his new contact James Moriarty and the fortune that could come along with helping the mystery man out, Peter couldn't refuse. The proposal had been simple, the two of them would work deep behind enemy lines. Peter's 25 plus years of experience in the secret service and Nikolas' career in politics gave them the perfect way in. As they spied, they became more content that their actions were justified. The corruption they uncovered, the lies, the deceit. The partnership between the three men had many benefits. All until several months ago when the spying became something different and Peter's briefcase had been swapped with a semi-automatic rifle. The game they had been playing changed and he found himself in the middle of a raging battlefield with no protection. All his limbs exposed.

And for a while he went along with it. He killed and he blackmailed. He got Nickolas into a seat of power. He helped organize crimes that Moriarty had penned. But the secret's he began to share were no longer for the greater good of the public. They were for power and James Moriarty was bathing in it.

He hadn't spoken to Nickolas since the fight, but he knew despite Moriarty's warnings his friend wouldn't kill him. Perhaps Peter has unwittingly joined a cult, but Night's allegiance was tearing at the seams before Peter wanted to leave. Cult or no cult.

When Nickolas' black Camaro pulled up in front of Peter's own, the tension in the air grew exponentially. Behind them the distant sound of the city's hustle flowed. So much life, so much potential. But here and now, things were much grimmer.

"Hello old friend." Nickolas said with a light chuckle as he stepped from the vehicle, his engine still running. Peter stood still, his silhouette stretch out to meet Night's feet.

"It's been a while." Peter said with a slight nod.

"Too long if you ask me." Nickolas responded.

"Shame no-one asked you." Peter quipped. Nickolas' chuckle returned and then silence filled the open air. Nickolas began to kick at the ground mindlessly.

"Pete, do you remember when we got in this together?"

"As clear as day." Peter responded.

"I told you we could change the world and we have. Now's just the next stage of evolution. We've got to keep moving forward."

"Well, forgive me if it seems daft, but kidnapping my daughter seems kind of backwards in my opinion."

"You miss the point…" Nickolas began to pace back and forth, "As usual."

"You owe me a lot of favours Nick and I'm cashing in." Peter took a few steps closer.

"I owe you my life." Nickolas stopped in his place and nodded. Peter smiled and rested an arm on his friend's shoulder. The tension that had worried him was slowly fading away.

"But I was never a man of my word." Night said, reaching into his pocket. Before Peter could respond there was a gun pressed to his chest, right over his heart. It began to race and he stared Night hard down the eyes.

"You know, when Moriarty asks you to do something you do it. When he says jump you respond with –,"

"How high." Peter grit his teeth firmly, not daring to move a muscle. Night wasn't a killer, he just had to remind him of that.

"I'm sorry about your daughter, even that doesn't sit well with me. But business is business. He needs her for something, much more important than getting you to stay. In fact he called me this afternoon and told me that you would do something like this. He said 'I don't care how you do it, just kill him. We don't need deserters.' And so here I am, with all the power for once Petey."

"After everything, you could just pull the trigger?" Peter forced out, sweat beading on his forehead, "You were beside me when my children were born and I yours. For Christ sake Ellen's your God-daughter. I'm your best mate. Don't forget that."

"You think I have?" Nickolas turned his gun sideways, pressing it closer into Peter's soft flesh, "You think I feel good about any of this. About killing and kidnapping? Because if you do for one second then you're so off the mark."

"Then put the gun down." Peter raised his hands slowly, in surrender. Nickolas took a step back and but kept the gun facing Peter.

"I can't, because it's you or me. No matter how close we are, I've got to think about myself first." Nickolas said with coarseness in his voice, his index finger trembling on the trigger of the gun. Peter knew this was it; Night had given him an ultimatum. There was one thing that his old friend had forgotten. Peter was not a victim, he'd spent years training how to avert scenarios like this. So just as Night went to press the trigger, Peter's hand shot out at lightning speed. It collided with the side of the gun, sending the bullet past his ear. The bang was ear-piercing and as it rung in his head, he moved faster again to try and pry the weapon from his attackers grip. Night had been expecting it though and pulled it closer to his body, trying to ward off Peter. Their hands fought for dominance over the gun, slipping in and out of the trigger hole. They elbowed and grabbed onto the other, struggling for their lives. Amidst all the fighting and hair pulling a second shot was fired that caused both men to stiffen. Neither of them had expected it, not really knowing who's hand was where and who was winning their brawl. Peter felt the gun kick back into his gut; a soreness resonating instantly. He half expected to look down and find the bullet had cut through him, but that was not the case. Instead Nickolas Night gawped at his own chest. His white tailored skirt beginning to saturate red. He let out a heavy breath and his face contorted with pain before finally his grip on the gun loosened and he went tumbling to the ground.

Peter stumbled backwards, Night's blood having splattered onto his own outfit. He hardly knew what to do, not really processing what had happened in front of him. As Nickolas bled out onto the concrete of the parking lot Peter could only think of one thing. _Run_. And run as fast as he possibly could. So Peter jumped back into his car and didn't let his mind wander. He had to delete what had happened. Just like when Heather had asked for a divorce, when he got the call she was dead and when he found out about Ellen's kidnap. His eyes glazed over and all he could do in the moment was stare off into the distant horizon as he sped down a highway at 100k's an hour.

vvvvvv

Sherlock was used to working through the night, heck he did it all the time. But with a clock counting down he wasn't accustomed to the pressure (although it would be welcome in any other circumstances). It had been made very clear to him that Ms. Harper's kidnapping had an deep emotional impact of Lestrade and of course John was phased by the ruckus too. But Sherlock, he had to remain emotionless, throughout this whole thing he had to distance himself. See each new puzzle as a case and treat it as such. Despite his efforts though he couldn't help but find himself bewildered as to why the kidnapper was making such and effort with this Ellen. What was it about her that made her a target? That was something that Sherlock found himself raking his brain, especially since he didn't have time to research her and find out.

From his initial deduction he had learned much about her. He knew her job, small details about her sister (protestor outside, resemblance was uncanny), possible ties with a father in government or military judging from her stance but too informal to be ex-military herself. Plus he'd once seen files on Mycroft's laptop about someone named Harper before, so there was a possible link. Sherlock knew about her relationship status, single, thanks to her obvious batting lashes and flirty tone when talking to John. He knew about her nail biting habit, about the fact she was uncomfortable wearing heels, hell he even knew that her favourite colour was most likely blue. But from all of that Sherlock wasn't any step closer to working out why it was her that was taken.

It would have taken time and effort to deck a car out in explosives, time to know that no-one else was around so that she wouldn't give away telltale signs of panic. The more cases that appeared before Sherlock the more that this concerned him. He'd heard a name once before…_ Moriarty_… but he couldn't be sure. The name played on his lips as he was jolted back from his mind palace. John snapping his fingers in front of Sherlock's blank face. He blinked twice and came back, giving his friend a reassuring smile. They sat in a cab racing around London trying to solve the latest mystery that had been set in order to save the girl's life.

They'd already gone to the site of the abandoned car, the missing man's wife distraught at the whole ordeal. Though Sherlock hardly bought any of it, as he said to John, people love to contradict you. So after a little game of 'Remember me from your past?' Sherlock had deduced some very important details that lead him to believe that Ian Monkford's wife knew more than she was letting on. As the cab came to a halt Sherlock jumped out, leaving John to pay the fare. Janus Cars. That's where the search had led and just in time too as the owner began walk out the front office.

"Excuse me." Sherlock shouted out, trying his best to come off as friendly, "I believe Scotland Yard called about an investigation."

"Took your time." The man said with a chuckle, "How can I help you gentleman?"

"Mr. Monkford hired a car from you yesterday."

"Yeah. Lovely motor. Mazda RX-8. Wouldn't mind one myself!" he chuffed, putting his hands inside his blazer pockets. Sherlock's eyes squinted as he noticed a slight discoloration of the man's skin as the fabric to his shirt slide. Clearly a mark of where a watch had been, forgotten to be taken off when sunbathing. The car yard was just sitting around them and Sherlock looked towards them, rocking back and forth on his feet.

"Is it that one?" he asked, pointing towards what he knew to be the wrong car.

"No, they're all jags. I can see you're not a car man, eh?" the man laughed again.

"But, surely you can afford one – a Mazda, I mean?" Sherlock chuffed with him.

"Yeah, it's a fair point. But you know how it is. It's like working in a sweetshop. Once you start picking at the licorice allsorts, when does it all stop, eh?"

"But you didn't know Mr. Monkford?" John interjected.

"No, he was just a client. Came in here and hired one of my cars. No idea what happened to him, poor sod." The owners demeanor shifted and his shoulders slumped slightly, but it was all very false in Sherlock's eyes. He needed to test the man.

"Nice holiday, Mr. Ewert?" Sherlock questioned, Ewert merely looked flabbergasted.

"You've been away, haven't you?" Sherlock gently nodded at his tanned skin. Ewert went red and shook his head.

"No, it's er, sunbeds. I'm afraid, yeah. Too busy to get away. My wife would love it though, a bit of sun."

"Have you got any change for the cigarette machine?" Sherlock asked, the machine standing adjacent to the trio, he held out a bank note, "I'm gasping."

Mr. Ewert frowned for a moment, reaching into his trouser pants and pulling out his wallet. He fumbed around for a bit looking for some coins but came up short.

"Erm, no. Sorry!" Ewert responded regretfully, putting the wallet back into his pants.

"Oh well." Sherlock said a bit too chipper and then turned on his heel, "Thank you very much for your time Mr. Ewert. You've been very helpful."

With three hours to go Sherlock was on the verge of cracking the case. It was clear that Mrs. Monkford and Mr. Ewert were both blatant liars. That was the obvious part though. Now standing over a microscope the picture was becoming much clearer. The sample blood from the car had faint traces of being frozen, something that a dead man wouldn't normally have in his system. So Mr. Monkford had either been frozen and thawed or the more likely scenario was that this was blood from a while ago, possibly donated. As Sherlock went to make his final notes by entering his mind palace the pink phone began to ring.

"Ellen?" he questioned softly. There was silence for a moment before another voice answered; a computer generated one.

"Not available at the moment. Little sheep is sleeping, needs her rest."

"What do you want?" Sherlock asked harshly, again the response was delayed.

"The answer is in the name. _Janus_ _Cars_."

"Why would you give me a clue?"

"Why does anyone do anything? Because I'm bored. We were made for each other, Sherlock." The computer voice droned on as Sherlock could hear the sound of something else. He could hear breathing, soft and gentle, in and out. Eerie but also soothing, like sound of life and death teetering on an edge. It could only belong to Ellen Harper.

"Chop, chop. We wouldn't want her to wake with a bang."

John entered as the phone cut out, coffees in hand. A dull smile played on Sherlock's lips as he took one and guzzled down.

"They've identified the body, from the explosion." John said matter of factly.

"Anyone of importance?" Sherlock's head peaked up, although his tone suggested disinterest.

"Actually, yes." John said, "Casey Taylor, Peter Harper's secretary –,"

"Ellen's father's secretary?" Sherlock cut John off as the cogs in his mind began to tick over, "What's the tying factor in each?"

"Peter Harper…" John said in slow realisation.

"Once we solve this case, looks like we need to pay daddy-dearest a visit." And with that Sherlock's head was back on the microscope and he was pulled back into the inner workings of his mind palace, the puzzle pieces fighting to make a whole picture.

vvvvvv

Ellen had tried to stay awake, really she had. Knowing that just outside her door lurked a giant man with a gun wasn't something that she could be happy with. The eight hour countdown wasn't all that fun either. As much as she fought sleep, her eyes kept fluttering. The adrenaline in her system wasn't enough to force her awake. The way she saw it was even if Günther came back if the timer ran to zero she could have some semblance of a peaceful death. She had always thought about how nice it would be to die while you slept. Not feeling any pain, just slipping away from the world as your peaceful dreams disappeared. So try as she might, Ellen desperately needed to rest and so sleep came.

A dreamless sleep, something that was actually welcomed. On any other occasion when Miss Harper was stressed she could conjure up quite terrible dreams. Images and violence that she had never witnessed before but somehow her subconscious drew them to the forefront of her mind, terrifying her. There was many a night she had awoken in a cold sweat, shaking her head and trying to push out the memories that had been there. Served her right for watching one too many horror movies for bed. When Ellen finally awoke it was to the sound of her cell door opening and the heaving thumping of Günther's stride. He had the famed gun in his hand and as Ellen's sleep covered eyes met his, her heart almost came to a stop.

"Eight hours are up." She heard the man say. She'd never heard his voice before. Strangely, despite his name, he was in fact non-Germanic but spoke with a thick South-African drawl. Rubbing her eyes quickly she sat up and waited, unsure of what her fate was to be.

"Boss says you get to live." He said, face still covered, though she could swear he was smiling. Ellen let out a relieved sigh and even smiled back at the large man. She swore if she ever made it out of here alive, she wouldn't forget to give Sherlock Holmes a big wet kiss. Günther turned around for a moment and reached outside the cell, grabbing something and handing it down to Ellen. Another tray of food, this time a lovely warm breakfast complete with eggs benedict, honey soaked porridge and perfectly cooked bacon as a side. Had it been anyone else but Ellen, they probably would have devoured the savoury dish in seconds flat, but after last night and the mysteries that were beginning to unravel she went straight for what was sitting underneath the food; today's newspaper.

Fumbling not to spill any food, she lifted plates until the latest heading was sprawled neatly in front of her. Her eyes noticed two key stories of the day. At first she noticed the image of her own face across the page reporting on the bombing of the previous day. That came as a surprise, what an effort to blow the place up and plant another body. But that wasn't so much the heading that scared her. Underneath it sat another article close to home. A heading that made her jaw physically drop and the terrible knot in her stomach tighten. '_Suicide in the Night: Minister Nikolas Night found dead.'_

Ellen knew, she had barely scratched the surface, but whatever her kidnapper was playing out terrified her. Her thoughts swirled into wonder as she envisioned what he would do next and somehow she couldn't help but feel that she was caught up in something that was much bigger than just her.


End file.
